


palms outstretched, fingers spread

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Retirement, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: With every kiss, his conviction was renewed -- if Aziraphale would have him, he very much wanted to marry him.[Written for the OTP Prompts event]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 59
Collections: Good Omens OTP Prompts Event Works





	palms outstretched, fingers spread

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the OTP Prompts event, run by the wonderful @bisasterdi and @darcylindbergh. This was such a clever idea, and I know I’ll be coming back to that prompt generator! The prompt I used for this fic was: "Crowley has been planning to propose for a while, he's bought the ring and everything. One day, he somehow loses it only for Aziraphale to unexpectedly find it."
> 
> The title comes from “On My Star” by KT Tunstall, which is a beautiful song that is absolutely about running away to Alpha Centauri.

The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion. As Crowley yanked his skinny jeans up past his hips, something gold and glittering flew from the left-hand pocket. Crowley traced its graceful arc through the air and stared down at the carpet where it must have landed, but he didn’t see the ring anywhere. With a growled _fffuck_ , Crowley dropped to his knees and began running his fingers along the carpet, jeans still undone. 

As he crawled under the bed, ass in the air and swearing the whole way, Crowley cursed the purple-haired young adult who worked the till at the bakery. For it was with them that this had all begun. If it were not for the purple-haired young adult, Crowley would not at that very moment be slithering around his own bedroom in search of an engagement ring. 

Several weeks earlier, Crowley had been at the bakery in town picking up an assortment of sweet treats for Aziraphale. They weren’t going on a picnic, Aziraphale had not requested any treats, and there was no occasion that might warrant their appearance in the kitchen. When Crowley brought them back to the cottage, he’d tell Aziraphale that he’d just felt like getting him something nice. He could do that now, he could do things for Aziraphale without cloaking them in eight different layers of subterfuge. 

“These for your husband?” the cashier had said, with a half smile. 

Crowley glanced up from where he was signing his human name on the card reader. “Huh? Oh, er, we're not married.” 

“Really?” the cashier raised their eyebrows and punched a few keys to complete the transaction. “I shouldn’t have assumed, sorry! That’s just a bit surprising, is all. Want your receipt?” 

“No...thanks.”

“Right. Here’s your latte, then. Have a nice day!” 

“You too. Nice day.” 

Clutching the paper bag of pastries, long fingers curled around the warmth of his caffeine fix, Crowley turned to leave. But he only made it halfway to the door before the cashier’s words really sunk in. Seized by curiosity, by that old instinct to ask questions, Crowley whirled around and strode back up to the counter. 

“Wait, no. Hang on. What’d you mean by that?” 

“Nothing, really,” said the cashier, with a shrug. “It’s just...I’ve seen the two of you come in here before. I just sort of assumed you were married.”

“Well. We’re together, that’s all that matters.” Crowley wasn’t sure why he felt so defensive in the face of this stranger’s assessment of his relationship. “What’s so special about marriage?” 

“No, absolutely.”

“I mean, it’s just a bloody piece of paper. Who cares if anyone else knows we’re together, or...or sanctions it, or whatever?”

“Too true, it’s just bureaucracy.” 

Crowley nodded briskly. “Are you married?” 

“Yes, actually,” said the cashier, smiling brightly now. “My partner and I made it official a few years ago. And it’s...I dunno, I mean, you’re right that it’s just a piece of paper. But it feels special to us.” 

“Special,” Crowley repeated, the gears in his brain coming to life. 

“Yeah, it’s just something we wanted to do.” The cashier shrugged again and tucked a bit of purple hair behind their ear. 

“Right. Right…” said Crowley, words coming slowly as his brain cranked out ideas. Someone behind him cleared their throat and he realized he should probably move on. “Er, thanks. I need to...think. Give my best to your partner.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Crowley, I will.” 

Lost in his own thoughts, Crowley left the bakery and walked down the high street to where he’d parked the Bentley. He took a long, thoughtful drink of his latte as the car started up and steered its way toward home. 

Humans had been assuming things about his and Aziraphale’s relationship for centuries, but never quite like this. They were actually together now, but the assumption still managed to be wrong. Whenever Crowley had imagined them together (and he’d done quite a bit of imagining in his time), it had been simple -- a shared space, shared warmth, and good wine. They had all of that now, and he hadn’t thought to dream for more. 

But maybe there could be more. Why did humans take things to that ultimate level? Why did they feel the need to meld bank accounts and worldly possessions? What was the point of all that paperwork when it boiled down to the same thing, that you were with someone for better or worse? 

The cashier had said it was something special, something they’d decided with their partner. It was a joint decision, an agreement on where you stood with someone. Crowley thought that he and Aziraphale reaffirmed their decision to be together on a daily basis, but this could be something more than that. This could be an occasion, something that called for flowers and desserts and fancy clothing, if they wanted it.

Besides, it was a very human thing, and Aziraphale liked human things. And it might be nice to introduce the angel as his _husband._

With a jolt of pleasure at that word, Crowley realized he was parked outside one of the antique shops in town. The Bentley always knew his intentions somehow, and she’d brought him here as the thoughts had worked themselves out in his brain. He patted the dashboard absentmindedly, as you might pat the head of a dog who’s brought you the newspaper, and then ventured into the shop. 

Things had snowballed from there. A shop attendant popped up and Crowley stammered his way through an explanation, and she’d whisked him away to a glass case filled with rings. There were a few that evoked angel wings, but Crowley thought that might be too close to the old signet ring Aziraphale had finally abandoned. After a few awkward moments, Crowley was planning an escape when he spotted the perfect ring. 

“That’s lapis lazuli set in fourteen karat gold,” the woman explained, carefully removing it so Crowley could get a closer look. “It’s vintage, from the thirties, but it’s got a rather contemporary look to it.”

It was perfect. The lapis made Crowley think of Aziraphale’s eyes at their deepest blue, when the angel was caught in the throes of passion, practically glowing with celestial love. The gold setting was strong but delicate, and it almost resembled a snake where the band came up to meet the stone. There was even a smattering of gold running through the blue that looked like stardust. Marriage hadn’t even been on the table before that morning, but Crowley couldn’t fight the certainty he felt in his chest now. 

So he bought the ring, of course, because he couldn’t bear the thought of someone else snapping it up instead. And then weeks went by as he tried to find the right moment to actually propose. He spent an inordinate amount of time in online forums reading about other people’s proposal stories, but nothing seemed right. There were many times when he realized, in retrospect, that the perfect time might’ve come and gone. There were quiet mornings, there were drunken evenings, there were picnics near the sea. But they’d all passed him by.

And now he was searching the bedroom carpet for the lost ring. 

“Bloody humans and their rituals,” he grumbled, halfway underneath the bed. “All the time in the world and I can’t pick the right moment. Fucking idiot…”

“Crowley? Is everything all right?” 

In his haste to stand up and appear nonchalant, Crowley bashed his head rather violently against the underside of their heavy wooden bed. With a groan and a string of mumbled curse words, Crowley slid out from under the bed. As he rubbed at the sore spot on his head, he rose up onto his knees and saw Aziraphale standing at the door.

“Everything’s fine,” said Crowley, giving him a thumbs-up with his free hand. 

Aziraphale frowned, coming around the bed to where he knelt. “Are you sure? That sounded awfully painful. Let me have a look at you.”

“S’fine, honestly,” Crowley insisted. He stood up, glancing furtively at the carpet. If he spotted the ring now, he could just stand on it until Aziraphale left the room. 

But Aziraphale looked worried, hovering around Crowley to examine his head. “You poor dear, what were you doing down there?”

“Lost a...cufflink,” said Crowley, silently willing Aziraphale to hold still. It would be just his luck for the angel to find the ring now and dash any hopes of a surprise. 

Aziraphale frowned. “A cufflink? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you wear cufflinks. Well, let me help you find it. I’ve got a good eye for this sort of thing.” 

Crowley panicked, grabbing Aziraphale’s elbow and hauling him upright before he could get a good look at the floor. “No. Er...no, it’s fine. You’re right, I hardly wear them. Not important, really. Bashed my head for nothing.” 

As Aziraphale continued to frown at him, now appearing concerned that he might have a concussion, Crowley frantically tried to think of a distraction. Something, anything that might get them out of this room and away from wherever the ring had fallen. The time was stretching on and his brain was giving him nothing, he had no thoughts, there was just one voice screaming at him to _think of something._

“Breakfast,” he finally choked out, relieved to find that he could, in fact, still speak. “We should get some breakfast. I think we still have a few pastries left.” 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, clearly unconvinced but also rather interested in the prospect. “Yes, pastries. And you might do up your trousers, unless you're after something more than breakfast."

Crowley smirked at him and zipped up his jeans. Then he gently steered Aziraphale toward the bedroom door, walking behind him and searching all the way for the erstwhile ring.

* * * * * *

Breakfast pastries were a rather delightful invention. Aziraphale would have liked to have been there when the first breakfast pastry was thought up, just so he could shake the hand of their inventor. They were easily his third favorite use of puff pastry -- the first being pear galettes and the second being chicken pot pie. But that morning, the nervous expression on Crowley’s face was disrupting his enjoyment of a perfect plum danish. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong and wondered how one could tell if one’s partner had sustained a head injury.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, setting down his half-eaten danish. “What day of the week is it?” 

Crowley looked at him and shrugged. “Dunno. Thursday?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure myself,” said Aziraphale. He’d never been very good with time, and it occurred to him now that he should know the answer to whatever health assessment question he asked Crowley. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“What? Four. Why are you assessing me?” 

“It sounded like you hit your head rather hard, my dear. I only want to make sure you’re all right.”

“I told you, I’m fine. This old corporation’s been through worse.” 

“Yes, but our corporeal forms are not immune to wear and tear,” said Aziraphale. “I do wish you’d be more careful.” 

Crowley sighed and reached across the table to lay a hand atop Aziraphale’s. “I promise, I’m very careful. I just...tried to stand up and forgot the bed was there.” 

Aziraphale gave him a fond look. “You poor thing. You must let me know if your head still hurts in a few hours. I could put together a poultice, if you like.” 

“Angel, I’ve told you, no one uses poultices anymore,” said Crowley. “And honestly, it doesn’t even hurt now. But I’ll let you know if things change.” 

“See that you do.” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand, and then returned to his danish. 

A little while later, after they’d discussed dinner plans and argued about the first time they’d actually, properly had breakfast together, Crowley headed out to his greenhouse, kissing Aziraphale on the way. Aziraphale watched him saunter out into the garden, pausing to check on the roses he’d planted the summer before. It was a pleasure to see Crowley so relaxed -- aside from the odd behavior that morning, of course. 

Aziraphale ruminated on what might be bothering Crowley as he scanned the shelves in the library for something to read. After quite a bit of aimless searching, he remembered the book about the language of flowers that currently sat on his nightstand. Aziraphale made his way up to their bedroom ( _their bedroom_ ) and considered how novel it was to have a nightstand. He’d never had much cause to spend time in bed before, no matter how Crowley had extolled its virtues. But now he had a nightstand, a comfortable bed to share with his partner, and several pairs of pyjamas. Really, it was quite something. 

It took several minutes to find the book he wanted, as the nightstand was rather cluttered. At the moment, the small wooden table on Aziraphale’s side of the bed housed six books, three empty teacups, and two half-empty tubes of lavender hand cream. By contrast, there was nothing on Crowley’s nightstand just then. When he settled in later that night, it would hold his watch and phone, as well as a glass of water. It was clearly a sign of his love for Aziraphale that Crowley didn’t remark on the untidy state of his nightstand. 

Eventually he found the book he was looking for and snapped the dirty teacups to the kitchen sink. He would have simply snapped them clean, but Crowley enjoyed doing the washing up and keeping watch on his garden from the window above the sink. As he turned to head back downstairs, Aziraphale’s left foot encountered something hard amongst the plush of the bedroom carpet. 

Aziraphale’s immediate thought was that he’d found Crowley’s missing cufflink. But when he lifted his foot and bent down to retrieve it, Aziraphale found something else altogether. There, nestled among the cream-colored fibers was a handsome gold ring with a striking blue stone. Since rings didn’t usually materialize out of thin air, Aziraphale assumed this was the actual lost item Crowley had been searching for. But why would he have a ring like this?

He furrowed his brow and stared at the stack of books on his nightstand, vision steadily unfocusing as he pieced together what he knew. Crowley must have lost the ring that morning, but he’d told Aziraphale that he’d lost a cufflink. He’d seemed flustered when Aziraphale came in, flustered enough to bash his head, almost as though the ring was a surprise of some sort.

It came to him quite suddenly, startling him so much that he dropped the ring. Aziraphale hurriedly snatched it up again, then stood up and crossed to the bedroom window, from which he could see Crowley inside his greenhouse at the far end of the garden. He’d stripped off his shirt in the creeping heat and was now wearing only his vest top. He was scowling a bit, probably upset with the delphinium, as he poured dirt into a terra cotta pot. 

Aziraphale closed his fingers around the ring and felt his heart leap in his chest. That handsome devil wanted to marry him.

* * * * * *

“Did you ever find that cufflink?”

Aziraphale was already in bed, book propped on his stomach and spectacles perched on his nose. Normally Crowley savored the sight of him there, but tonight his gaze was trained on the floor.

“Hmm?” 

“You’re staring at the carpet. Is that cufflink still lost?” 

“Er, yeah. Still lost.” 

Crowley shuffled to the bed, trying to search the carpet with his toes as surreptitiously as possible. The ring seemed to have evaporated, and he wished that Aziraphale would suddenly take up sleeping so he could resume his search under the bed. There was no chance of that, though, and Crowley wasn’t sure when he’d be able to keep looking. The ring was definitely in this room, somewhere in this room. He’d seen it hit the floor with his own two eyes, where could it have gone? 

Unable to linger beside the bed with his toes curled into the fibers for very long, Crowley gave up and slid into bed. As he made himself comfortable, his mind wandered -- the ring could’ve been kicked further under the bed, all the way to the wall. Or maybe one of those pesky crows from their back garden had swooped in through an open window to steal it. No, that was insane. Or was it? 

Lost in thought, Crowley actually startled when he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his arm. He met his gaze and smiled shakily, trying not to seem preoccupied. 

“It’s only a cufflink,” said Aziraphale, softly. “It’ll turn up.” 

“Right. You’re right.” 

Aziraphale’s hand slid down his arm to push his fingers between Crowley’s. He let his book fall shut and said, “I ran into Mrs. Fisher the other day, in town. She asked after your roses.” 

“Yeah? What’d you tell her?” 

“That they were positively flourishing.” 

Crowley frowned. “They’re rebellious little shits.” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, with an indulgent smile. “Forgive me for providing a slightly altered version of that opinion. She also mentioned that she and Mr. Fisher just celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary.” 

“Wow,” said Crowley, his voice cracking a bit. “Long time.” 

“Isn’t it, though? We’re a bit like them, aren’t we?” 

“How d’you mean?” 

“Well, we’ve been together rather a long time.” 

“Yeah, but not properly.”

“No, not properly. But we’ve been side by side for six thousand years. I confess, I sometimes wish I could tell people that. We could put all other milestones to shame!” 

Crowley chuckled weakly, wondering where the conversation was headed. “Right. If only things had been different.” 

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale, squeezing Crowley’s fingers emphatically. “If we’d been able to confess our feelings sooner, we could have been married for a very long time indeed.” 

Crowley tried very hard not to swallow his own tongue. He sort of laughed, sort of choked, and forced himself to ask, “Would you have wanted that? I mean...mngh, does that matter to you?”

“It might be nice. Don’t you think?” 

Crowley nodded and held his breath, half expecting Aziraphale to produce a ring from somewhere and scoop up the proposal moment all for himself. But that would be absurd, the timing of it was too coincidental. He must be projecting; Aziraphale had simply had a conversation with Mrs. Turner that got him thinking about their relationship. That’s all this was, no reason to panic. Now if only he could convince his hammering heart. 

Aziraphale leaned closer, keeping their hands linked, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s cheekbone. “Are you still thinking about that ruddy cufflink?” 

“A bit, yeah.” 

“Shall I help you forget about it, dear?”

Soft, plump fingers trailed along Crowley’s jaw and turned his head gently. Crowley went willingly, leaning into a kiss that deepened gradually until he was whimpering. Ironic, he thought, that this could easily make him forget anything else -- a botched cooking experiment, misbehaving plants -- but not this. As Aziraphale pressed even closer, overwhelming him with that familiar smell of lavender and book dust, Crowley was reminded of just how much he loved him. With every kiss, his conviction was renewed -- if Aziraphale would have him, he very much wanted to marry him. 

Crowley kissed him back, fervently returning the love he could feel Aziraphale pouring into every touch and swipe of his tongue. But Aziraphale was in charge that evening, a fact that became all the more apparent as he slid one hand under the duvet and into Crowley’s boxers. 

“I love you,” he said. “Oh, I love you so much, angel.” 

“And I, you, dearest.” 

As Aziraphale touched him, pressed his lips to the underside of his jaw, Crowley was still very much thinking about the lost ring. It was absolutely imperative that he find it. He wouldn’t wait for a fabled perfect moment, not anymore. He just wanted to give the ring to Aziraphale and profess his love in a whole new way.

* * * * * *

When Crowley woke the next morning, Aziraphale was no longer beside him. With a dramatic sigh, Crowley spread his limbs out on the expanse of bed and stared up at the ceiling. One persistent theme had dominated his dreams: finding the ring. In one dream, he’d found it only to drop it down a very long chute that might have led all the way to Hell. Now there was sun flooding the room, and he was awake, and he had to find it.

Willing Aziraphale to remain downstairs this time, Crowley shifted into his snake form. He didn’t make the change often, but this seemed like the most efficient way to search. Crowley slid along the walls of their bedroom, keeping close to the baseboards, alert for any brush of metal against his scales. He spent a long while under the bed, convinced that the ring must have fallen there, but didn’t find anything. Nearly thirty minutes passed with no sign of the ring, and eventually Crowley slipped back into his human form. 

There was nothing for it; the ring had obviously fallen into some alternate reality. Crowley sat down on the edge of the bed and considered his options. He could go back to the antique shop and search for another ring. But the one he’d found had been so perfect, and anything else would feel like second best. He supposed he could just propose to Aziraphale without the ring. There clearly were no perfect moments, and now there wasn’t even a perfect ring.

In the kitchen, there was a mug of strong coffee being kept miraculously warm for him. It was the thought behind it, rather than the coffee itself, that warmed Crowley when he took his first sip. This was what mattered, he thought. He should include something about this in his proposal. Aziraphale was in the conservatory with a cup of tea and a book, and this could be the moment. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing was, and Crowley was tired of beating around the bush. 

“Morning, darling,” said Aziraphale, his face lighting up when he saw him.

“Morning,” said Crowley. How did that smile still make his chest feel tight? He should probably include that in the proposal, too. “Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Of course.” Aziraphale closed his book and gestured for Crowley to sit next to him. 

Feeling rather shaky all of a sudden, Crowley joined him on the wicker sofa whose cushion was far softer than one might imagine. He took a few nervous sips of coffee, and then leaned forward to set it on the small table, right next to Aziraphale’s teacup. For a moment, he watched the steam rise from their respective beverages and tried to come up with a metaphor. Metaphors were a good way to start off marriage proposals, at least from what he’d found online. Perhaps something about unlikely bedfellows, and opposites attracting. 

“Is everything all right?”

Crowley sat back quickly, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Yup. Perfectly....perfectly fine.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Are you sure? You’ve been out of sorts since you bumped your head.”

Crowley shook his head, trying to look nonchalant, though he could feel his shoulders creeping up toward his ears. “Naaah, just thinking about that lost cufflink. And the bloody rose bushes.”

“They’re beautiful, I assure you,” said Aziraphale, setting his hand on Crowley’s knee. It wasn’t until he registered the gentle pressure that Crowley realized his knee had been bouncing. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said, without thinking. “And thoughtful. Did I thank you for the coffee? ‘Cause that was really nice of you.” 

Aziraphale smiled sweetly at him, the slightest blush blooming on his cheeks. “It was nothing. Oh...oh, Crowley, hold still.” 

Crowley froze as Aziraphale’s smile dropped. “What? Why?” 

“I think you’ve got something in your ear, dear.” 

“In my…?”

Crowley trailed off, his brain trying to piece something together, and he might’ve got there if he hadn’t been so preoccupied by the lost ring. But before the synapses could fire off a bastard warning, Aziraphale’s hand was returning from his ear with that very ring clutched between his fingers. 

“Ta-da!” he said, triumphantly. 

“What.” 

“What?” 

“Did you -- where did that come from?”

“It was in your ear.” 

“Don’t be cheeky. Did you become incredibly good at magic overnight?”

“You didn’t think I was good at magic before?” 

“Angel. C’mon. Where’d you get the ring?”

“I’ve struggled to learn some of the tricks, but I thought I could pull them off reasonably well. You’ve got to admit, that was a surprising reveal.” 

“Yeah, it was bloody surprising, because that’s my -- _how_ did you end up with my ring?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his tone so innocent it was a wonder his halo hadn't appeared. “Is this yours?”

At that, Crowley threw back his head and laughed. Here he was, fretting over what might constitute the perfect proposal, and Aziraphale had gone and beat him to it. Nothing else could have perfectly encapsulated what Crowley loved about his mad angel. As Crowley wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, he saw that Aziraphale was still holding the ring and looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He had half a mind to tackle him right there and snog the living daylights out of him. But first he needed answers. 

“I went all snakey to try and find that, you know,” he said, his laughter dying down.

“Ooh, that’s very clever of you.” 

“Yeah, only it was pointless, wasn’t it? How long have you had it?” 

“Since the other day, right after you lost it,” said Aziraphale, his eyes twinkling. “You were in the garden, and I went upstairs for a book. I stepped on it straight away, so it must have ended up on my side of the bed somehow.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Should’ve gone back and looked after breakfast.” 

“Perhaps. But, you know, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“How come?” said Crowley, with a chuckle. “You wanted to propose first?”

“No, I actually hadn’t thought about marriage before,” said Aziraphale. He glanced down at the ring and rubbed thoughtfully at the stone. “But as soon as I realized what the ring must be for, I went all sort of gooey inside, just like a romance novel.” 

Crowley smiled. “Does that mean you would have said yes?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale brought his gaze up from the ring and smiled. “But I believe I’m the one holding the ring, my dear. So I get to pop the question.” 

“You absolute bastard,” said Crowley, grinning now. “Go on, then.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled anew, clearly pleased with himself. “Crowley, would you marry me?” 

“Of course. Yes. Very much, yes,” said Crowley. He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands and leaned in to kiss him.

“May I put the ring on your finger?” Aziraphale asked. “I believe that’s what comes next.” 

“Oh, no,” said Crowley. “No, this ring is for you. I bought it specifically for you. It was sitting there, in the antique shop, just begging to be on your finger.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, with a pleased wiggle of his shoulders. “All right, then.” 

Crowley took the ring from Aziraphale and held his hand, caressing the soft palm. He gently slid the ring onto his finger, and it fit perfectly even though he hadn’t resized it. He’d found it, and it was perfect for Aziraphale, and Crowley expected that it would fit, so it did. He admired the way the stone and gold setting looked against Aziraphale’s pale, soft skin. This was right -- marriage may have been a trifling human ritual, but this felt right. 

“Someone at the bakery put the idea in my head,” he said, gaze still fixed on the ring. “Talking about marrying their partner and making it special between them. And, mngh, I know we’ve already got each other and our cottage. But this could be another layer, another point of connection. We don’t even really have to do it, you know, in a ceremony. It could just be this -- the ring, and you, and me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, anyway.”

The proposal wasn’t what he’d imagined, but Crowley thought it appropriate all the same. Once he’d managed to get the words out, he brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips and kissed the brilliant blue stone. Then, finally, he looked up at Aziraphale and was surprised to find unshed tears glistening in the angel’s eyes.

“Oh, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, voice a bit choked by emotion. “This is all I’ve ever wanted, too.”

Crowley smiled at him -- a big smile, with teeth. “Hey, now I’ve put the ring on your finger, so I should get to ask. Aziraphale, will you marry me?”

Aziraphale blinked, and a few tears ran down his flushed cheeks, catching in his pale eyelashes. Crowley wanted to lean in and kiss them away, but he waited, wanting to hear the response. Aziraphale nodded, “Yes. I love you, my dear, I truly do.” 

Crowley fought back tears of his own and brushed a thumb against Aziraphale’s wet cheek. “Never gets old. I love you, angel.”

* * * * * *

It was a warm summer morning, with a breeze blowing in off the sea. England’s tetchy climate only afforded them so many warm summer mornings, so they took advantage whenever they could. On this particular morning, Aziraphale and Crowley took the Bentley into town and walked along the high street. Crowley pointed out where he’d bought the ring, and Aziraphale ducked into the bookshop to say hello to the proprietress. He left with four new books, obviously. As they came upon the bakery, Crowley was struck by an idea.

“What d’you say? Round out the day with a scone or two?”

“My dear, I’ve never turned down a scone, and I don’t intend to start now.” 

Crowley brought their linked hands up to kiss Aziraphale’s knuckles, and then steered them into the bakery where the whole ring palaver had begun. By chance (or perhaps some sort of divine intervention), the purple-haired young adult was working the till. The bakery was quiet, as everyone was likely at the beach or walking on the Downs. Crowley planted one pointy elbow on the counter as Aziraphale began his usual perusal of the pastry selection. 

“Hi again,” he said, grinning at the cashier. “I’ll have a cold brew with a shot of espresso, and my _husband_ will have...er, what’ll it be?”

Aziraphale was staring intently at the array of scones before him, wringing his hands a bit. “I’m afraid I’m still deciding, dear.” 

“Take your time, angel.” Crowley turned back to the cashier and gave them a little nod.

“Made it official, then?” said the cashier, just barely holding back a wide smile. 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. It was odd, he couldn’t seem to stop grinning. “Y’know, you put the idea in my head. So, er, thanks for that.” 

At that, the cashier’s smile broke through. “Always good to see more love in the world. I mean, you know, you already seemed pretty much in love. But, anyway, congratulations!”

“Oh, are you the someone who got Crowley thinking about marriage?” Aziraphale, who had clearly been eavesdropping, strode over and stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, you know, properly.”

“And what’s your name, then?”

Just like that, the cashier was caught in the beam of Aziraphale’s celestial smile, and Crowley watched as they talked about the cashier’s partner and whether they enjoyed their job at the bakery. Crowley was fairly certain that Aziraphale was on his way to a free scone, but he also knew that wasn’t why he’d struck up the conversation. He shuffled a bit closer and settled his hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back, a simple point of connection. Without breaking his stride, Aziraphale shuffled closer in return. This, Crowley thought, was what mattered. 

Though the course of true love never ran smooth, it occasionally found its way to smoothness. That thought nestled behind Crowley’s breastbone, where he hoped it would remain for at least the next six thousand years.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re interested, here’s the inspirational imagery for the ring around which this story revolves: https://www.metamorphosisjewelry.com/free-form-ring-with-lapis-lazuli 
> 
> I’m @truncated-symphony on tumblr. Find me there, still yelling about these two.


End file.
